“About the skull you found in the cave?” I asked.
“Yes,” Eddy said. “She not only confirmed it’s a bear skull, but more specifically it’s a polar bear.”
“And clearly the associated arrowheads show the animal died a violent death,” added Dr. Soleil. “Those arrowheads raise many questions, too.”
“That’s right,” Eddy said. “Traditionally, the Beothuk used flint, obsidian, or sometimes bone. But the arrows in this burial are iron. So either this bear was killed by the Norsemen or the Beothuks traded for the iron. Either way, the severed bear skull must have had special significance to have been given a ritual-like burial in a cave full of pictographs.”
That was pretty incredible stuff. “So does it look like they were —” Just then I felt a very annoying tap on my shoulder. When I turned around, I saw Bertha glaring at me.
“How’s about ya wrap this little chit-chat up?” Bertha pointed to the line of people behind Eddy and Dr. Soleil waiting to get their lunch.
“Oh, yes. So sorry,” said Eddy. “We’ll find time later to fill you in more, Peggy.” They both helped themselves to quiche as I poured their corn chowder. “It looks delicious — bet I’ve put on five pounds since I arrived.” As Eddy moved along to get cutlery, she winked at me.
For the rest of the lunch hour I was in a daydream. I couldn’t remember what I said or even who I served. All I thought about was the polar bear skull. It was strange for sure — and familiar — but why?
“Get yer head out of the clouds, girl. You’re sloppin’ soup all over the place, ya dropped the ladle into the pot twice, and now we’re out of cutlery. Go get some more, ya silly thing.”
Boy, Bertha was awful snippy. It wasn’t as if she was super-focused herself. That morning, after we made the quiche, she’d put them in the oven and gone off to make a phone call. I was the one who’d noticed the temperature wasn’t even on. When I took them out so I could preheat the oven, Bertha had snapped at me. “But the oven wasn’t on — and I know you weren’t planning to solar cook them,” I’d snapped back.
“Oh, well, then, fine,” she’d said without so much as a thank-you. Then she’d begun preparing the chowder and gotten distracted — burned the milk and had to start over again. “Mind yer own business, girl. We need more grated cheese, and see if the chocolate cake has thawed. If it has, cut it into squares and put them onto a platter.”
Bertha always acted like a drill sergeant — all grumpy and demanding. But that day she was worse than usual, and on top of that, forgetful. So now, when I was a little distracted, she’d made a supreme case out of it.
“Tomorrow’s the last day fer field school. That means tonight’s supper has to be extra-special. I was tinking about a shepherd’s pie with lots of those lovely mashed potatoes we made together. And then a nice tossed salad, fresh dinner rolls, and some of my famous mushy peas,” Bertha said after everyone was gone and we were cleaning up.
“Mushy peas? I’ve made those — just cook them to death, and voila, mushy peas.”
Bertha chuckled for the first time that day. “That’s not what mushy peas are, silly. First thing, ya don’t cook ’em in a pot — ya fry ’em in a pan.”
“Okay, mushy peas and shepherd’s pie,” I said. This time the potatoes wouldn’t include bits of stuff off the floor. “So what about dessert?”
“Well, I was tinkin’ of cheesecake with caramel drizzled over the top, baked until the caramel’s a teensy bit crackled. It’s my husband’s favourite.” Bertha’s eyes suddenly welled up as if she were going to cry. “Oh, darn, something’s got in me eye. I need a tissue.” She left the kitchen quickly, and when she came back her eyes were red and puffy. “I need a little time to organize things, Princess. Ya run along and find something to do. But be back at three or I’ll —”
“I know, I know, you’ll clobber me,” I said before she had a chance.
“Right! I’ll clobber ya.”
I went back to the tent and flopped down on my bed. Finally, I had time to think about Eddy’s news. Something kept niggling at the back of my mind. I reached under my cot, pulled out my sketchpad, and opened it to the pictures I’d drawn the day I’d gone to the cave. I wasn’t the artist type, but the sketches were pretty good. I’d forgotten how much detail I’d included — like how I’d drawn the rock cairn from two different angles. I had to let Eddy see these, I thought.
I studied the pictographs carefully. As I examined them, an idea struck me. The large animal standing over the human might just have been a bear. And the people with the pointy chins — could they be Vikings?
I jumped off my bed, grabbed my sketchbook, and took off for the Viking settlement. When I arrived, I went straight to the forge to see Niko. As I waited for him to finish with the visitors, I had to pinch myself to keep from interrupting. When they finally moved on, I practically jumped onto his lap. “Niko, I have something I need to talk with you about. It has to do with the cave Louise found.”
“Well, tell me, girl, what’s on yer mind?”
I sat next to him and told him everything Eddy had said about the skull and the arrowheads. Then I opened my sketchbook.
“What have ya there?” he asked.
“These are drawings I made when I was in the cave. They’re pictographs on the walls, and this is the rock cairn that was inside.”
“Ya say ‘was inside’? Isn’t it there anymore?”
“No, they excavated it. Well, first I knocked it over. But then they removed all the rocks and found an animal skull buried underneath.”
“Ya don’t say.”
“Yah, and they even brought in an expert — a zooarchaeologist. She said it was a polar bear skull. What makes it even more interesting are the arrowheads.” I told him about how they were made of iron and how they had pierced the bear’s skull in different places and that lots more were found in the cairn burial. “The other day you told me the story of Sigrid the Brave. Didn’t you say it was a bear that killed her?”
“I did, indeed.”
“Good, now what kind of bear? Do you know?”
“Indeed I do. It says right in the saga it was a great white bear. I imagine the author was referrin’ to a polar bear.”
“And the bear was killed by a stream of arrows shot from the forest, right?” I said.
“Right.”
I pointed to the pictograph with the large animal and two human figures. “So this is what I’m thinking. This pictograph might be of the battle between Sigrid and the polar bear. And if I’m right, it means the Beothuk were there — watching.”
“Very good deductive reasonin’. I tink you’re right. They saw the whole thing. I’m sure they were always watchin’. The Norsemen came to the same conclusion when they found the bear’s body and realized the arrows were iron-tipped. Since they hadn’t traded them, it meant the Beothuk must have entered the settlement at night, taken the leftover slag from the forge, and made their own arrow tips. The Vikings then realized how vulnerable they were and the danger the Beothuk posed to them.”
I sat still, taking in all the facts. This was huge. If I was right — that the pictographs were a record of that day and they were an actual visual record of the event — it confirmed the Saga of Erik the Red and the story of Sigrid the Brave. It also meant the skull in the cave was from the bear that killed Sigrid. “Niko, when you spoke to the field school last week, did you tell them about Sigrid?”
“No. They were only interested in hearin’ about the Saga of the Greenlanders, the one that highlights the adventures of Leif Eriksson. They weren’t interested in Thorfinn Karlsefni.”
“That means they know nothing about Sigrid or how she died. They have no idea of the connection of the bear’s skull to her and the Norsemen who came here.” I folded up my sketchbook. “I’ve got to go and find my friend, Eddy. She needs to hear about this. Thanks, Niko.”
“It sounds like you’re the one to be tanked, young lady. Ya connected the dots. Let me know how the exp
erts take the news.”
Racing out of the sod house, I headed up the hill toward the field school, excited about telling Eddy what I’d discovered. When I found some of the students working on an excavation pit, I asked them if they’d seen Eddy.
“Look, you’re not supposed to be here,” said Taylor.
“But it’s really important that I talk to her. Do you know where she is?” I pleaded. No one answered. Then I looked at Maile — she was signalling me by pointing her nose toward the visitor centre. I gave her a tiny nod and took off up the trail.
When I reached the wooden stairs, I took them two at a time. Out of breath, I burst into the centre. There were a few tourists peering at the glass cases containing Viking artifacts from the site. I took a moment to imagine the bear’s skull inside a similar glass case and tourists reading about how it was found by two young girls and about the story of Sigrid and — “Get a grip, Peggy,” I said aloud. Right, I had something important to do.
I ran down the hall to the lecture rooms, expecting Eddy to be there. But when I burst through the door I nearly collided with Professor Brant. “What a cow, Maile!” I growled under my breath.
“You!” Professor Brant demanded. “What are you doing here?”
I definitely got the feeling I wasn’t welcome.
“Well? What do you want?”
“I … I was just looking for Eddy. Is she here?”
“Do you see her here? And even if she was, you’re not to distract her from her work. Didn’t I make myself clear to you the other day?”
“Yes. And I wouldn’t have come except I’ve discovered something important about the cave site.” I turned to leave, trying to think where I should look next.
“If you have information, I’m the lead archaeologist around here. You can tell me.”
I didn’t want to share with Mister Snotty Pants. He gave me the willies, and besides, I wanted Eddy to be the first to know.
“Well, what is it? I haven’t got all day.”
This guy definitely didn’t like me. Maybe he’d feel different once he knew how I’d figured out the connection of the bear skull to the Norse girl. It might just be the thing that would make him warm up to me. Then I could get Louise and me back inside the cave.
“I know what the pictographs are about and how they’re connected to the bear skull and the death of a Norse girl named Sigrid,” I said boldly.
“It’s no secret the Beothuk killed the bear.”
“Yes, but why did they kill it? And why did they paint those pictures on the cave wall? And what do they mean? I know the answers to all those questions.”
“You do, do you? Then you’d better sit down and tell me what you know.”
I sat next to him and told him the story of Sigrid the Brave and her uncle, Thorfinn Karlsefni. I told him everything I’d learned from Niko about the Saga of Erik the Red. Then I opened my sketchbook and showed him my drawings. “You see these pictographs here? They’re telling about the day Sigrid fought the bear. It shows that the Beothuk tried to stop it from killing her, but they were too late. In the saga it says the Norsemen returned to Greenland soon after her death. The cave, the paintings, the burial of the bear skull — all of it might have been their way of acknowledging their great fortune that the foreigners were gone and they finally had their land back.”
Professor Brant sat quietly, contemplating my story. Then his face broke into a large, creepy smile. He was so pleased that he asked if he could have my sketchbook to show the others.
“Sure. I was going to give it to Eddy, anyway, but I guess I can let you have it for a while,” I told him.
“All right, then. You run along. Bertha must need you in the kitchen,” the professor said in a sort of charming voice that was a little on the sinister side.
I glanced at the clock on the wall. Crap! It was already three-thirty.
As I ran back to the cook tent, I hoped Bertha wasn’t going to be too mad. Now that I’d shared my discovery with Professor Brant, perhaps he wouldn’t be so mad at me anymore. Maybe Bertha would be pleased, too, and not be so hard on me. In fact, after today I’d bet I was on everyone’s good side — or at least would soon be.
When I arrived, I tugged open the door and a black cloud oozed out from the kitchen. “Bertha,” I gasped, coughing. I could see flames shooting out from under a pot on the stove, as if it had boiled over. “Bertha! Fire!” I ran to the sink and filled a container with water. Just as I was about to throw it onto the flames, Bertha came in.
“Stop!” she yelled. “Never throw water on a grease fire.” She turned the stove off and slapped a lid on the pot of oil, then grabbed the box of baking soda and poured it over the flames. A few moments later the flames had shrivelled and finally gone out. The danger was over.
I let out a big sigh. “That was close.” When Bertha didn’t acknowledge what I’d said, I turned and saw that she was wincing with pain. “Are you burned? Is it your hands?” Without saying anything she staggered to the sink and held her hands under the cold water. Already the skin was bright red, and there were blisters. “Bertha, should I call the ambulance? Do you need a doctor?”
“No,” she groaned. “Just get me the medical kit.” She continued to wince from the pain, and I was afraid she needed more than a few bandages. “Peggy, you’ll have to cleanse the skin and then apply bandages to my hands.” I guess I must have looked doubtful that I could do all of that. “Don’t worry. I’ll tell ya what to do.”
After all the DVDs of ER Mom had made me watch with her, I should have been used to icky stuff, but I wasn’t. Old bones — fine. Blood and icky stuff — not so much. While I disinfected Bertha’s burns, I breathed deeply to keep from upchucking.
When her hands were bandaged, we both sat silently. I looked at the clock. Dinner was supposed to be served in less than two hours. But the potatoes weren’t peeled or cooked, the mushy peas and cheesecake were covered in baking soda, and the entire place was filled with the awful smell of smoke. And Bertha, with her injured hands, wasn’t going to be much help.
I was used to Bertha always being tough and scary, so I was surprised when I noticed tears trickling down her face. “This is all my fault,” she said. “What have I told ya over and over about kitchen fires? If I hadn’t been so worried about my hubby, this never would’ve happened.”
“Your husband? What happened to him?”
She sniffled and wiped her nose. “He’s gone up to the Yukon, drillin’ fer oil. But he’s not a spring chicken anymore and that’s hard work. He’ll be far from home fer months. I don’t want him to do it, but we have no choice. We’re strapped fer money, and the girls … they need our help.”
I knew what it was like to be on a tight budget. After Dad died, my mom was always trying to make ends meet. It was one of the reasons we’d moved in with Aunt Margaret.
“And now I’ve gone and made a real mess of the dinner. What am I goin’ to do? Professor Brant’s goin’ to be mad as a hornet, and I’ve nothin’ to serve.”
“Well, look on the bright side, at least you don’t have to be afraid of getting fired,” I kidded. “You know … since field school is finished after tomorrow, anyhow.” She wasn’t seeing the humour. I looked around the room for something to salvage. “This hamburger looks good. And you mixed in fried onions, too. There must be something we can make with this.” Suddenly, a light bulb went on in my brain and I remembered the cookbook Aunt Margaret had stuck in my bag as I was leaving home. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told Bertha.
Dashing to my tent, I rummaged under a pile of dirty clothes and found my backpack. When I pulled out the cookbook, my Great-Aunt B’s Best Chili in the World recipe fell out almost like magic. I never imagined it was something I’d ever use — not in a million years.
“I know what we’re having for dinner,” I announced when I ran back into the kitchen. “And we’ll use the barbecue and make it a cookout picnic.” Surprisingly, Bertha didn’t have a thing to say.
I read off the ingredients, and she directed me to the shelves where I could find everything. As fast as I could, into the biggest pot I could find, I poured diced tomatoes, tomato sauce, kidney beans, and chili powder, then threw in the chopped celery and green peppers meant for the salad. Finally, I added the cooked hamburger meat.
Outside, the gas barbecue was ready, and I lugged the pot of chili out and put it on the grill. “Bertha, are you able to stir?”
“Yah, I’ll manage. Get out the frozen buns and we’ll thaw them with the heat of the barbecue.”
“Right. Then after that I’m going to drag chairs and tables out onto the grass.” Man, I’d never worked so hard or so fast, but the clock was ticking even faster.
“Bertha, what are we going to have for dessert? There’s no time to make anything. How about we serve ice cream?”
“That’ll do. And we can throw on some sweetened bakeapples, too. There’s a bowl of them in the fridge.”
Good. We had a main course and a dessert. We were going to get through this thing. As I raced off to get the cutlery and serving utensils, Bertha called me back.
“I just want to say one thing, Princess. Tanks. Things would’ve been much worse if ya hadn’t been here.” Bertha got teary again. “You’re a good girl, Peggy. A little odd and wayward at times, but all the same, a good girl.”
“Sorry about your hands, Bertha.”
“Ach, I’m a tough cookie. Okay, enough of this sweet talk. Get goin’, Princess.”
I stood guard at the door to the dining tent as people started to arrive and directed them to the picnic tables instead. Bertha covered her hands with oven mitts so no one could tell she’d burned them. What a relief — our cookout was a big success and seemed to lend itself to celebrating the end of a successful field school. With the air of festivity, no one even knew about the kitchen fire. Especially Professor Brant, who was in a particularly good mood. I was sure my news had something to do with it.
“Great chili, and I love the cookout idea. Please pay my compliments to the chef,” Eddy said after supper.
“Actually, if you like the chili,” I boasted shamelessly, “you can thank me for it. It’s my great-aunt’s recipe. Though Bertha helped some.”
A Bone to Pick Page 11
